At that a deep silence fell on them, each ear being intent to catch the words that presently came slowly, gaspingly, from the pale lips already stiffening in death—“The—way—of—trans—gressors—is hard.”
Her eyes remained closed; she did not seem conscious of their presence or of anything; two or three long-drawn breaths followed the words, and then all was still.
A moment’s solemn silence, broken by the voice of Sandy McAllister in low, moved tones, “Poor, misguided creature! she has, na doot, proved the truth o’ those words o’ inspiration in the sad experience o’ the past few weeks. She’s been in hiding frae the law, and has died o’ want an’ misery.”
They gave her decent burial, paying the expense out of the money left by her husband. They knew of no relative or friend to summon to her obsequies, and there was no one to drop a tear of affection upon her lonely grave. She and Phelim O’Rourke were reaping in another world what they had sown in this.
Deprived of their leader, and fearing to share his fate at the hands of those who had dealt out stern justice to him, the rest of the band had fled the vicinity, and peace, quietness, and security reigned all up and down Wild River Valley; but the story of its tragedy will linger for years, if not forever, in the minds of its inhabitants—a tragedy that was largely the result of a disregard on the part of the law-makers of the State of that law of God—“Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed.”
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
This text has been preserved as in the original, including archaic and inconsistent spelling, punctuation and grammar, except as noted below.
Obvious printer’s errors have been silently corrected.